


This is an Incomplete Work

by MajorEnglishEsquire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Books, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2166804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorEnglishEsquire/pseuds/MajorEnglishEsquire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not actually an incomplete work.</p>
<p>But Dean Winchester is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is an Incomplete Work

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not intended as 'ship shaming or fic shaming. The humor here is not directed at anyone except, well, EL James. I do not own the rights to these characters, the setting, the show, any other works mentioned, etc. No harm is intended.

Dean picks up books. He picks them up with no plan in mind.

His TV schedule was rigorous at one point. It was _involved_. All pilots got their fair chance and he even hung on to some shows he knew were going to be horrible simply to watch the train wrecks. Police and crime scene procedurals would get early cuts and he'd indulge in dramas for longer. Reality shows are some of his favorite disasters if he's being honest.

But some motels only get four channels. And sometimes a rocksalt-loaded gun will go off too close to his ear and he won't be able to hear right for half a week. And sometimes money's tight enough, or the fuzz is close enough that squatting in a building without power is the only other option than sleeping in the car.

Those times he'd take refuge in a library or a coffeehouse and read. The cafes were better for drawing in interested parties with only the amount of effort it took to turn a page. Always some sweet little thing with tatts encasing both arms or shining cherry-red lips would introduce him to their favorites. It's how he got into Vonnegut and Thompson and Bukowski and DeLillo. And talking over those particular _men of letters_ would get him some serious _numbers_. Hasty scrawls of digits in the inside covers of paperbacks and others on napkins thence forth used as bookmarks.

They're in the buzzing, hissing hum of midsummer Georgia and in need of refuge but there are no hipster coffee shops in sight today. The town is small enough that the next motel isn't even at a convenient distance so they're stuck at the one with the ancient (currently _broken_ ) A/C.

It sets them both to dreaming of the cool, underground halls of their far-away bunker. 

Dean follows Sam to the library for research time. All the neighborhood kids are in the local swimming pool so the adults have the boring old book museum to themselves, the building humming away, air conditioning really pumping.

Sam reserves one of the public PCs and sets up his laptop next to it so he can double-barrel research over their agonizingly slow internet. He's stressed and he won't tell Dean what he can do to help, so Dean simply chooses to stay out of Sammy's way and let him do the brainwork.

He retreats into the stacks.

Maybe he should read something new. Something the ladies would be into. He's had a long dry spell lately and, you know what? Boobs are a great pick-me-up.

All bits and pieces are new and interesting and refreshing to Dean, really. But it's summer. And the light, airy sundresses are out. The brand-new bikinis. The nipples. The nipples that tighten when a fine flowery crop-top walks in from the heat to the blasting cool A/C.

Speaking of boobs. And various other funbits. He hasn't read those _50 Shades_ books everybody goes on about. He's heard things, mainly from news reports that deem them _sultry_ and _naughty_. He knows there's gonna be a movie. And he's heard that they're poorly written, so it might be best to wait and _see_ rather than inflict that on himself. But he's read pure crap before. Trash can be fun.

He finds one of them on the library shelves and picks out a cushy chair in a corner. It's a little off color with a few broken springs, but it's under a vent blowing air so cool he might have to pull his overshirt back on to cover his arms.

The writing really is bad. He gives it a fair chance for the first twenty pages, then holds his place, and flips through to find some of the real saucy shit.

There's a none-too-delicate snort from the aisle his chair is facing.

A girl with bushy hair, probably a teen who considers herself a bit too old for the screaming excitement of the community pool, yanks her eyes away and ducks to read titles further down the shelf.

Dean raises an eyebrow.

She pauses and looks back up at him. "I'm sorry."

"No big deal. Better you laughing at me than my brother."

She stands back up from her crouch and says, "You know, that's just _Twilight_ fanfiction. Not even the good stuff."

Dean frowns, a little uncomfortable. "Fanfiction gets uh. Pretty dirty. From what I've seen."

"Yeah," she agrees with a grin, "but not all of it. There's great stuff that doesn't even turn into porn. And _really_ great stuff that does." She looks around, suddenly. Maybe realizing she's talking about porn with a grown man in the shadows of a library. She pulls out her iPhone and thumbs through it, pulling something up.

"Here," she offers, handing over her phone. When Dean hesitates, she shrugs. "Somebody's gotta save you from reading that. If it has to be me, well," she shrugs again. "This is one of my favorite fics. It's only three k. Give it a shot?"

Dean's experience with fanficiton so far has been incest and Becky.

He frowns. Hesitates again. But then reaches to accept the phone. "I'm looking for something. So I'll be a few minutes. Read that. It's short and sweet. It's a really excellent fic. You know _Lord of the Rings_ , right? Or at least the basics?"

"I--" there's no point in denying it with some teenage girl, he doesn't have to save face or preserve himself from looking like a dork. "Yeah. The basics."

"Give it a chance. It's a great fic." She actually leaves him with the phone and returns to her search.

It really is short. Only takes a little while to read. It's focused on Legolas and Gimli. It's like a short but deep study of their friendship. It's strange.

It's kind of... touching.

Dean gets up to shelve _50 Shades of Grey_ and track the teenager back a couple aisles. She stands when she sees him and takes her phone back.

"It was sweet, right? See, that's what fanfic is sometimes. Just a glimpse. Just so you can visit your favorite characters and see them happy, see them feeling alright. You know. And sometimes watch them have hardcore sex." She smiles.

Dean fidgets and steps back and kinda blushes. Geeze. This chick certainly doesn't lack for confidence.

"But I just wanted you to know that most fanfic? It's better than that _50 Shades_ nonsense."

"Alright," Dean agrees, "I believe you."

"Okay. Sorry. I mean. Gosh. Sorry. I jumped all over you there. I just think people have a bad idea of what fandom is and a bad idea of what good writing is. Anyway. Just. Please find your porn on the internet. It's so much better. There are way better writers."

"Uh," Dean shrugs, looks around, "like who should I be reading, then?"

"It depends what fandom you're in," and to Dean's slightly confused look, "which shows you watch. Or movies. There's fanfic of books and things, too."

"Like um. Like."  
He's not going to say 'Dr. Sexy' to a teenage girl.  
He's not going to say 'Dr. Sexy' to a teenage girl.  
He's not going to say 'Dr. Sexy' to a teenage girl.  
"Like Dr. Sexy M.D.?"

"Oh, god," she waves a hand flippantly. "Tons of it. I mean, I don't read any myself. But. You'll find something."

"Well. Um. Thanks for the tip, I guess. Thanks for saving me from... bad porn."

The girl's blushing now. And she visibly hesitates, but then rolls her eyes at herself. She pockets her phone and picks her selected books back of up off the shelf, then steels herself. "And just for the record. Your eyes are amazing. Like superhot. I DON'T-- I don't mean your _eyes_ are hot. I mean _you're_ hot. I mean. I." She's scarlet, getting as frazzled as her curly hair. "Anyway, yeah."

Dean only laughs a little, and kindly. "Yeah, I got the ladies all over me at the old folk's home," he jokes.

"Omigod," she raises her books in front of her face. Hides for a moment. "Okay. I'm sorry. I just had to get that off my chest. Anyway. Um. I hope you find. Um. Something good to read. Yeah."

"It was nice meeting you," Dean offers.

She takes a deep breath, straightens up, and tucks her books under her arm. "And you," she says, gathered, nearly professional. Nods. And darts away.

Dean smiles for a long moment and considers pulling up the story she'd shown him on one of the public terminals, but decides that if he should click around and find anything porny, he'd rather it not be in a public place. He'd look like a freakshow sitting there in public just...

Well. Then again. He's seen people reading _50 Shades_ in public. What's so different about that?

The difference is probably in the classier "fandom" he supposes.

He takes out his phone and types out a note to himself so he remembers the name of the story and the website it was on. He's kind of moved away from the anime porn, anyhow. Maybe he'll have some special time alone with some Dr. Sexy fanfiction the next time Sam dips out to visit a salad bar or some shit.

«»

When Metatron's big secret for re-powering Cas shapes up to be harmful to his brothers and sisters, he opts out of it. Cas comes back to the bunker.

He comes down and he stays.

It's almost too good to be true. With Sam still wanting to hunt, and more-- wanting to keep in contact with Krissy and her fellow junior hunters. Wanting to extend their network and spread knowledge, help the next generations to stay safe and hunt efficiently. And now he's got Cas with all his soldier's instincts and wealth of knowledge. He even sticks around, for the most part. Finally. He stays within reach unless another of his straggling fallen brothers needs his help.

It's like... some sort of stability. It's fragile. And it always feels like it's gonna shake apart. But he cooks in most nights, now. And Sam dates. Like he _dates girls_ and he even fucking _smiles sometimes_. It's a damn miracle.

And Cas. Nine days out of ten.  
He stays.

There are nights in this new, strange pattern of the everyday that throw him off a little.

Quiet nights. Time alone. When he has the whole bunker to himself. He'll head down to work on the Impala, hose the road dust off, and find Cas's Caddy gone. And Sam's beater of the week out since yesterday.

He finds himself with time to be alone.

He will admit.

It drives him fucking _nuts_.

Dean wants, more than anything, to be surrounded by family. To have this stability and have it hold and -- _I'm such a selfish bastard_ \-- he wants them to be with him always.

He would prefer to hold on tight. Always has.

But he's never gonna do anything ever again that would make Sam draw new limits on their family. Never wants that stony, professional silence to pop up between them again.

And Cas has already had his wings clipped. Dean ain't gonna be the one to tell him he hates watching him leave home.

Cas is effectively human now. He has to go find out what a human life means to him.

True, he'll use the time alone to piss and moan to himself. To be lonely and sigh over it.

He'll also have a wank or five.

He'll think about driving a couple towns over and picking up a warm body for the night. Something strong and thick this time. No boobs other than maybe a really thick pair of pecs. Someone to make him hot and keep him warm for a few hours before he returns to the stone-cold cavern he calls home.

He should. Really.  
He should take a page out of Sam's book and find somebody. Or try to.

But Cas disappeared first this week. And so he'll probably be back soon.

He wanted to start watching _M*A*S*H_ with Cas this week. Explain the jokes to him. It's a new hobby of theirs. Cas's little download from Metatron was information-only. Almost completely lost on Castiel with all his practicality and relative inexperience with messy human emotions.

Dean chooses to just post up in the kitchen, instead. When nobody's home, it's his favorite reading spot. It's close to the fridge.

He's got a 62k Dr. Sexy/X-Ray Tech George fic to finish reading.

«»

It's actually a pretty long weekend full of nothing to do. He does leave the bunker for groceries. And after he brings everything in, he taps the car keys against his thigh and taps his boot on the garage floor.

He's dressed. Decent. He's been out into the world already today.

He could head to a bar in time for dusk. In time to find some bodies to be around. Someone who could be interested.

Shit. Maybe even someone to just have a fucking conversation with. He doesn't have to fuck somebody. Maybe he just wants to hear some voices and some bottles clinking. Have some life around him.

He would admit that, often, the quiet gets the better of him. It drives him to find life. To drive the self-loathing voices out of his head with drink and song and shouts and moans and fights and fucks.

There have been many of those voices since he had the Mark of Cain stripped off his skin. Since Sam cured him and folded him back in where he belonged, snug into humanity.

But the urge to ramble, to waste his time and start fights, to be a piece of shit to drown out the thoughts about _how much_ of a piece of shit he is -- it has not lingered.

Maybe this is aging with grace. Or maybe he's just a weary old man.

He closes the garage up and plugs in the laptop again.

Something occurs to him while he's assembling dinner and he sucks ketchup off his finger to scroll to the search bar on the big ole website o' fanfiction.

He's been on it a lot lately, has become familiar with all the variables you can use to search for fanfiction. It's best to start off by likes, "kudos," to find the good stuff when you've found a pairing you're interested in.

He feels like he's gonna regret this. But the morbid curiosity gets the better of him and he washes off his fingers to type "supernatural" into the search bar.

There are multiple tags, it seems. "Supernatural," "Supernatural Novels - Carver Edlund," "Supernatural Novels (unreleased)" and "Supernatural Novels AU." There are about 1800 works available. Nothing compared to the amount of Tolkien fanfic he'd initially cruised through after clicking around on that first fanfic. And certainly not compared to the fandoms the kids are really into. The MTV shows and the Sherlock Holmes spinoffs and such.

He knows AU means "alternate universe" because people are big fans of Dr. Sexy western AUs.

He... might be one of those people.

He sees that they've made up last names for Sam and himself. The fandom seems to have decided their last name is Remington.

Dean needs a minute to mull this over. He puts the finishing touches on his burger and settles at the kitchen table with it.

He does see Sam and himself paired up "Sam (Supernatural Novels)/Dean (Supernatural Novels)" that first pairing that still makes him itchy. But, overwhelmingly, more recent fic offerings are tagged "Supernatural (unreleased)" and involve the angels. Anna. Castiel. Michael. Lucifer.

He sees Sam paired with Lucifer.

He puts the burger down and looks away from the screen deliberately to blink.

Wow. He's gonna need to process that.

Or not ever. Or he is _never_ going to process that because it can't be processed.

He sees "Dean (Supernatural Novels)/Castiel" a lot. Cas doesn't have a last name made up for him and he's evidently unique enough not to need extra explanation.

Ain't that the truth.  
Just introduce him by name to a room full of demons.  
One way or another -- running or screaming -- _no more demons_.

Dean smirks at the thought.

He doesn't know if he wants to read these things. You know. Personally take the words into his mind to have and hold forever and ever. To replay at inappropriate moments and laugh at or very _carefully_ excuse himself from the room.

He thinks about it. He opens a bag of chips and thinks about it.  
He thinks about how he should have just made fries.

He goes to the sidebar to sort by how popular the fics are.

Him and Cas come out on top over the first 20 results.

Okay.

He picks one and clicks.

It starts in the middle of a hunt. It's actually riveting.

He highlights his place to go dump his plate in the sink and get a new drink. He checks the word count as he moves to sit back down.

And he picks up the laptop, instead. Heads to the library. There are more comfortable chairs there.

He can't find a fic in the top 20 that's less than a hundred thousand words.

"Well, Chuck," he says out loud to himself, to the universe, to wherever that poor prophet has gone, "seems like the fans put out a few more novels for ya. If writing is hard," he sips his beer, "we've got ourselves some gluttons for punishment."

«»

When he first hears Cas's shoes stomping around in the house, he's in the middle of a high school AU where he's having desperate, awkwardly-written, physically-dubious sex in the back seat of the Impala.

With the man currently walking into the room.

He shuts the laptop.

But not before Cas pauses and raises an eyebrow like he's familiar with the red and white color scheme of the website he was just on.

"Hey," his voice sounds scratchy when he greets Cas.

"Hello, Dean."

Oh boy.  
Oh wow.

It was a really bad idea to start reading fanfic about himself, holy shit.

He's gonna hear "Hello, Dean," now and picture Cas towering over him with a curse-induced erection in hand.

Dean blinks.

He'd skipped to some of the bad stuff. He couldn't tell you exactly why. It felt like he needed to know that people couldn't actually _get him_. That they didn't have his number. The first few fics that people liked so much, the first few popular pieces, he'd read through mostly. Then skimmed. Then stopped.

They saw things too clearly. They saw things in a way Chuck never even wrote down. Not that they made him question himself. They made him _sit with himself_. They made him view himself the way... the fans view him. And Sam views him. And Cas views him.

If they're to be believed, anyway.

As much as he's trying to hold on now, to what he is since he lost the Mark, since he got Sam back, since Cas came to settle in their lives, he feels like he can control himself better. Like he's older and wiser.

But still a bunch of broken, chipped pieces just glued together. Still used, washed, reused. Some writers are too perceptive. They see too much of it and give Sam and Cas reasons to love him anyway. Write them _loving him anyway_.

He wanted to know that the rest of the writers, the less-perceptive ones, _didn't_ get it. He didn't want to feel so transparent.

There were some bad pieces.  
They were not in the majority.

Cas shifts his weight where he stands and then approaches Dean slowly.

"Was that fanfiction? About the Gospels?"

Oh, Dean _so_ does not want to consider them gospels.

If you read those books as gospels, apparently what you get out of it is that he's either all over his brother or he has intense goddamn chemistry with the guy standing right in front of him.

This could make living with him awkward.

And Cas can't possibly be prepared for Dean wanting him. He's barely just resigned himself to a life without the power of grace in his hands. He's living in someone else's shape, in a body he wasn't born in.

He loves Cas. Intensely. Like everybody he loves, truth be told. He maybe can't say it to them, but he wants his family. Constantly.

So _fucking_ badly.

He wants them to be here all the time. Body and soul.

He's already spent time in his life thinking about proving that to Cas, physically. Just when he was thinking about it, about signing and sealing it, pulling Cas into him and resting against him, asking for forgiveness and wanting to share his troubles--

Cas had looked them in the eye and unwittingly admitted to listening in on him and Sam and Bobby. Had proven himself a traitor.

Dean had never swallowed his heart deeper before that moment. Not when dad hit him because he was scared for Sammy. Not the times when Sam walked out the door. Not the times he'd faced nightmare approximations of his mother.

Whatever this thing he has for Cas is that these fangirls-- these writers. Have somehow spun out and made play out over and over again, over thousands of words.

It's just.  
Too uncanny.

So Dean decides to laugh.

"Weird shit, huh?" He shifts the cord and sets the laptop on the side table next to him. Shifts in his seat, trying for casual. "Weird, yeah." He realizes too late that he's repeating himself and- "Strange. They, uh. They're all about sex. And, you know. Not very good," he shrugs. "I've read better. Probably gonna stick to published works from now on. I was just curious. You know. I mean. It doesn't seem like they-- well. I mean, Chuck wasn't great at it, you know? You have crap like that to work from, I guess you can't expect fine literature or anything," Dean smirks, aiming for flippant. "The source material was," Dean flaps a hand, dismissing it all at once.

Castiel stands there. And his eyes narrow.

"There's some very good fan-created works from Chuck's novels, actually. At least I thought there were."

"Well, c'mon, Cas, your opinion isn't exactly refined, I mean you haven't even seen the movies with-- Wait a minute," Dean's struck. "I thought Metatron just fed you books and shows and shit."

"It seems he'd gotten well into fanfiction after you and Sam introduced him to Kevin. He was eager to see what further stories the Internet provided once he finally exposed himself to the rest of media."

Cas pauses and cocks his head.

"Now that I think about it. I know which stories might have given him certain." Another pause. "Certain ideas about us."

Fuck. Cas has read them, too?  
Not _read_ , but--  
How much of them would he understand?

There's entire worlds of crossovers and AUs there. A lot of assumptions made by the fans. Not just their names but other events. Thoughts and feelings. Deeper readings of the source material.

All those _things_ they saw in him.

Cas wouldn't really get-- would he?

"Donno how you can call that- the writing isn't very-- they don't even know-" Dean finds himself stuttering.

And Cas.  
Castiel comes closer.

His legs, in Dean's jeans, bump into Dean's knees, in Dean's jeans.

He's just belted out some nervous laugh that didn't sound hysterical _at all_ , no no.

And Cas comes in. And sits on him. Climbs up into the wide seat with him. And straddles his legs. Parks his ass right in Dean's lap, still over-warm from where he had the computer resting.

When Dean finally shuts up, it's another, "Hello, Dean."

And he comes up with a brilliant, "Uh. Hi."

Castiel scoots forward. Nice and tight. The seat's wide and comfortable, but he's still a little amazed that they aren't toppling backwards, Cas has shifted so much of his weight right on top of Dean.

And then Cas grinds his ass down.

The electrical short in Dean's circuitry starts in his jaw. It clamps shut audibly and he has no control over it.

The next grind sends white-light flashes through his brain and his vision and cuts off everything he thought he knew, and everything he's ever wanted, from what's happening now, in this moment.

The next grind finds his hands clamped into Cas's solid, muscled _thighs_.  
Which he doesn't remember doing. He doesn't remember moving his hands.

And the next makes him _sway_.

He sways back and then forth again. Sits taller and comes closer to Cas's mouth. Which is still mostly neutral, but mildly pleased as he lowers himself to grind his ass down against Dean again.

What Cas gives him then is a tiny little gift. He lowers his mouth, almost close enough to kiss. But he does not open it.

And Dean's mouth flies open and he _babbles_.

A mess of "Oh, fuck, yes, Cas, god, oh god, yes, baby, please," and physical assessments, "so hard for you right now, want you so bad, you fucking feel so good," and nostalgia, "wanted you, want you so bad, wanted you so long," and gasps and breathy half-curses and outright moans as Cas just drives himself down and down and down onto Dean again and again until it's chafing. Until it almost hurts. Until Dean wants to strip them down and make it real.

Dean finally moves his hands-- his hands _finally move_ of his own will again. They rise to clutch into Cas's hair and draw him down, wanting to taste him, ready to taste him, years-ready, lifetimes-ready, _so fucking ready, just let me open you and taste you, sweetheart, this--_

Cas pulls out of his hands and steps out of the chair and walks back one step.

Then he rolls his eyes heavenward and does nothing more than quote in a complete monotone:

"Oh, fuck, yes, Cas, god, oh god, yes, baby, please, ugh, unh, oh, so hard, so hard for you right now..."

As if he were reading the words off a fucking grocery list.

Verbatim. Every grunt and moan with absolutely no emphasis. Nothing more than a collection of words and sounds and broken letters.

Half-way through his recitation of Dean's lost mind, he rolls his eyes down to see that Dean is horrified and slack-jawed.

Cas smiles but stops immediately.  
Stops smiling after a moment, too.

"You're not very enlightened or original in your own sexualized babbling," Cas points out. "But, see? It's not that easy. To pull those words out and set them down and wrap enough meaning around them without physical or visual elements to bring them to life. Don't be so critical of the writers, Dean. They love the story. They love your story. That's why they choose to embellish it and build upon it. And it's not easy turning _those words_ into something that sounds like lust and love. But clearly--"

And here, Castiel actually points at Dean's fading erection still evident in his jeans.

"Clearly. The words mean something. It's not that easy, is it? To be coherent and enlightening and observant and clearly portray physical actions and floods of emotion all at once. And that was just some 'dry humping,'" Cas finger quotes. "As writing goes, I'm not entirely sure you're ready for more advanced sexual displays."

Dean barks a harsh laugh and points to Cas, still hard in his jeans, too. "Look who's talking. Tell me I have no chance of advancing _that_ display, you sonuvabitch. Doesn't seem like you're turned off from my babbling," he crosses his arms, petulant.

Cas tweaks an eyebrow like, _u lil shit_. "I'm not ready to click 'kudos' yet. I'll send you a couple rec lists and you can try again later."

He turns. And he leaves. To just go on about his business and haul his bags back to his room and start his laundry and whatever else.

Son of a bitch.

Wait.

_Son of a bitch_.

He can try again later.

"I can try again later?!" he yells across the house.

Cas doesn't yell back in kind. He still doesn't get family rules about yelling things back and forth. He still thinks it's rude.

But Dean doesn't go after him. The words unfold in his head, unedited but sure. The way he wants Cas's lips to open under his. The way he wants and needs him and how he's gonna press that into his body instead of ever pleading with him again. Instead of ever fighting again or being at odds or keeping secrets or hesitating or hurting each other. He might not even say anything. Might tuck the words into touches and holds. Might never let go and not say a thing about it.

Actions speak louder than words, after all.

The occasional moan or broken oath might still fall out. But, if he wanted, he could turn even that list of 'oh's and endearments and longings into poetry. Cas is right, it's not easy, and not meant to be. And he will respect it. Using tongue and teeth, yes. Using lips and no words. Using fingers but no keyboard.

He could author a new ending to each day. His own story and he's always wanted to hold the damn pen.

Like a million fanfics, or just the hundreds (maybe thousands?) of the rest of his days. He could find infinite variety in the repetition of these truths: he wants, he loves, he has his family.


End file.
